From the Second Chapter:
Chores & Allowances
Seems to me twenty-five cents a week’s
enough for a boy of your age. I declare I
don’t know how you spend it all. -- Our Town (Act I)
Thornton Wilder
Like many children of 1950s America, I never knew a world without Television.
My folks had purchased a huge twenty-one-inch “Silvertone” console when I was not quite a year old. While my brother and sisters may have vaguely remembered life without it, to me it seemed as much a part of the natural order of things as air or sunshine.
I spent hours on the floor hugging a stuffed toy dog (it was golden yellow, with a red-felt tongue), fascinated by the snowy images of "Winky Dink and You" and KCMO’s "Kousin Ken’s Karnival" in the morning -- and an endless parade of cowpunchers, detectives, and vaudevillians at night. Imogene Coca seemed a rubbery version of Mamie Eisenhower, and Roy Rogers was like a favorite uncle (if a favorite uncle could ride, rope, sing -- and wing the six-shooters out of villains’ hands). My parents preferred Perry Como and "The Chevy Show", and never failed to catch an appearance by the ever-classy Nat “King” Cole. I thrilled to the exploits of Clayton Moore and Jay Silverheels, zoomed through the living room with a dish-towel cape during "The Adventures of Superman", and wondered if “Sky" King (“...from out of the clear blue of the Western sky...”) would ever get tired of saving the always-curious Penny -- and let the Bad Guys KEEP her, for cryin’ out loud. Color television, with its round picture tube, had made it’s first appearance by the time I was four, but was considered a ridiculous extravagance. Color was for the rich, not for us.
Television, however -- even in black & white -- was to have a profound effect on my perceptions of Work.
* * *
I’d learned quite a lot from The Tube: that Chlorophyll was the Miracle Ingredient that could solve most of life’s pressing problems, that John Beresford Tipton’s personal secretary would probably never bring a million-dollar check to our house -- and that in all likelihood I would grow up to be Zorro, and marry Gisele MacKenzie of "Your Hit Parade" . With candy cigarette in hand, I entertained my parents and their friends with a reasonable (for a child) impersonation of Edward R. Murrow -- mimicry being a skill that would have greater significance much later, in my working life.
To my delight, another thing I discovered was that many people made a living by Selling Things. Inspired with this new-found knowledge, I grabbed the finest posession I could think of -- a metal-and-plastic dump-truck -- and promptly set off to sell it to The Nice Lady Next Door. Five dollars seemed a reasonably adult sum; surely she would be able to afford a fiver. I would then be on the road to Financial Independence -- and The Nice Lady Next Door would have a darn nice truck.
The cool breeze of Freedom caressed me as I strolled up Seneca Street’s brick sidewalk to the house of The Nice Lady. It was my truck, after all, and I could sell it if I wanted to, couldn’t I? Then I would have five dollars. Five Dollars !
I knocked, and waited.
The door opened, and The Nice Lady peered down at me with a perplexed look. Holding up the truck, I confidently presented my well-constructed sales pitch.
“Would you buy this truck?” I began with an air of businesslike seriousness, “It costs only five dollars today.” I recalled that commercial announcers always said things like “Act Today!” and implied that tomorrow, it might be Too Late. A good tactic, I thought. I paused for the enthusiastic response that was sure to follow.
“Does your mother know you’re here by yourself?” The Nice Lady asked with concern.
I stood silently. I hadn’t been prepared for this.
“If your mother doesn’t know you’re here, you should go home.”
More silence. Some salesman.
“Go home, Matthew.”
Shoot. This sales thing was more complicated than I had thought. Nobody on TV ever said “no” when people tried to sell them things.
Rotten Old Lousy Truck.
Crestfallen, I sauntered back down the street as The Nice Lady watched. I was beginning to have the uneasy feeling that I would soon be in Big Trouble -- as in, “you’re in Big Trouble, young man” -- but there was to be none of that. The telephone rang just after I skulked in the front door, and I heard my Mother saying, “Mm-hm...mm-hm,” while looking in my direction. I waited for the Big Trouble for what seemed like an eternity, but it didn’t come. Finally, Mom gave me a hug and told me pointedly how important it was that she always know of my whereabouts. That was it.
I still have the truck.
Thanks, Mom.
* * *
I supposed it was this brief foray into the world of Commerce that convinced Dad and Mom that an allowance was in order, along with the appropriate chores by which it could be earned.
On Saturday mornings, children’s shows dominated all four TV channels available to us. Through a blizzard of interference, I would eagerly scan Doodyville for a glimpse of “Princess Summerfall Winterspring”, played by the doe-eyed Judy Tyler until the time of her sudden disappearance (I later learned that she had died tragically). Otherwise, I wasn’t a big fan of Howdy Doody , and older-brother Tom made me snort with laughter at his own, more vulgar version of its “Tah-rah-rah-boom-de-yay” theme.
We were allowed to view our fill of such harmless fare -- along with the envy-inducing advertising that accompanied it -- until the Boring Grown-Up Shows came on. At that point, the rule-etched-in-stone was that we were to Turn The Blasted Thing Off and begin the housecleaning.
You need not imagine, Dear Reader, four underfed waifs scrubbing the floors in rags. Ours was not a sterile household, as Mom and Dad were firm believers in the principle that a child’s first job is to be a child. We were expected to live in civilized comfort; this meant regular dusting and sweeping, with toys put away and a general attitude of neatness. Spring Cleaning was another matter, and we were all compensated appropriately for our additional efforts.
In the beginning, my regular assignment was Dusting. In return for this, I was to receive fifteen cents. This was better than a five-dollar bill; this was two things -- a dime and a nickel. It was three candy bar’s worth! Such was my innocence. I was puffed with pride at being chosen for such an obviously Necessary Job.
At first.
Part of this all-important task was to carefully remove the various household knickknacks from their places, wipe them clean, along with the surfaces upon which they had stood, and return them. Simple. I buzzed along like the look-at-me-I’m-helping little busy bee I was. First one knickknack, then another, then another. No Problem. Good Boy. What a Big Helper.
However, as the weeks went on -- and on -- the Knickknacks seemed to multiply. There were Knickknacks everywhere I looked, each submitting a silent plea for dusting.
Little ceramic-box Knickknacks.
Little ceramic-pitcher Knickknacks.
Little ceramic-people Knickknacks.
It couldn’t have been my imagination. It seemed that Mom was accumulating Knickknacks like burrs on a spaniel.
Little ceramic frog Knickknacks and bird Knickknacks.
Souvenir Knickknacks and “Where-the-heck-did-THIS-come-from?” Knickknacks.
In December, there were Christmas Knickknacks.
Sheesh.
What was she -- a Knickknack Knut?
With the fifteen cents in mind, I wisely kept these musings to myself.
* * *
In no time at all, I was earning a worldly twenty-five cents. My sister Tina explained that this was a “quarter” and that if I hung on to my earnings I would have, in a mere four weeks, a whole dollar. Of course this dizzying pay raise came with a greater responsibility besides dusting. I was to use a metal tray with a flip-open cover, called a Silent Butler, and empty the ash trays.
It was a more innocent time. The dangers of smoking were mere suspicions and, although a very few teens smoked, in 1950s St. Joe they seemed little better than hoodlums. Everybody knew that tobacco was for adults, and adults only. My dad smoked Pall Malls (commonly pronounced “pell mells”, for some reason), and his valiant and repeated efforts to quit would finally pay off in the 1970s. I still recall the impressive advertising: “Outstanding -- and they are mild! “ Another brand touted its “full, rich tobacco flavor”; they certainly didn’t smell flavorful, and the nicotine temptation would not beckon me for several years. In an effort to “cut down”, Dad would switch to an aromatic pipe from time to time -- instilling in me the life-long prejudice that anti-tobacco types should leave pipe-smokers alone. Mom briefly smoked Parliaments, with their filters fascinatingly “recessed” (as if that would help), but her addiction was less severe.
Smoking concerned me less than the additional ten cents, however -- and what my parents didn’t know was that I would have emptied the ashes for free, just to play with the Silent Butler. In was a great toy for a boy who was rapidly approaching his Sixth birthday -- and who, just a couple of weeks before this milestone, would embark on a Work which would take him to adulthood and beyond.
(excerpt copyright 2002 by Matt Cates)
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